Chapter 5: 'Open, let me fix you,' Carlos commands, dragging Isabella’s ankles over his shoulders as he rubs balm into her torn folds, her gasps sharp when his thumb circles her clit. 'Next time I’ll fuck you here with ice first,' he promises, watching her shudder at the threat disguised as care.
The steam clung to their skin as he washed her, his hands moving through her hair with a tenderness that felt like a separate language. He soaped every inch of her, his thumbs circling the faint impressions his fingers had left on her hips, worshipping the bruises he’d painted on her canvas. He lifted her from the cooling water, cradling her against his chest, and wrapped her in a towel so soft it sighed. He patted her dry with infinite care, blotting the water from the delicate skin behind her knees, the dip of her spine, the vulnerable hollows of her collarbones.
From a drawer, he produced a bottle of bergamot-scented lotion, warming it in his palms before smoothing it over her shoulders, her arms, her thighs. He kneaded the tension from her muscles until she was pliant and sighing against him. He sat her on the edge of the bed, the towel pooled around her waist, and fetched a hairbrush. He began at the ends, working through the wet tangles with a patience he reserved for engine telemetry, each stroke a silent apology. “Mi valiente,” he whispered, the Spanish rough and warm against her ear. “My brave, filthy girl. Taking my cock like a champion, taking my rage.”
He laid her back, gently parting her thighs, and his breath caught at the vivid, swollen proof of his possession. He scooped a dot of cool, aloe balm onto two fingers. “This will help, cariño,” he murmured, applying it with a touch so light it made her whimper. His own cock, thick and heavy, hardened insistently against his thigh as he tended to her, but he clenched his jaw and ignored it. “Next time,” he promised, his voice dark with want, “I’m going to fuck this sweet, bruised cunt so slowly you’ll scream for mercy before you come.” She whimpered, pushing her hips feebly toward his hand. “I can take more, please,” she slurred, but he shook his head, withdrawing his touch. He pulled a clean t-shirt over her head, the fabric swallowing her, and tucked her beneath the duvet, his own need a fierce, unspoken ache in the silent room.
He slid into bed beside her, the cool sheets a shock against his heated skin. She immediately rolled into him, her body seeking his with a blind, instinctual trust that stole his breath. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand splayed across the ladder of her spine beneath the soft cotton.
His fingers traced the topography of her shoulder blade, then drifted down to the blooms of color on her hip. She sighed, a contented sound that vibrated against his chest, and nudged her forehead into the hollow of his throat. He kept tracing, mapping the evidence of his own savage release on her skin, each bruise a dark sacrament.
“You’re really here,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hairline. “After all that, you’re still here.” She made a soft, agreeing noise, already half-submerged in sleep, her leg hooking over his thigh to claim more of him. He could feel the warm, damp heat of her through his boxers, a stark contrast to the cool linen.
His cock, still hard and unsatisfied, throbbed insistently against her thigh. He ignored it, focusing instead on the slow, even fan of her breath against his skin. She was falling asleep draped over him, her complete surrender a heavier crown than any championship.
He was in awe of her. This devastating, beautiful creature who had taken his darkest energy and absorbed it into her very bones. She clung to him now not out of fear, but of choice, her fingers curling possessively into the hair on his chest.
“Te necesito,” he breathed into the darkness, the confession raw and absolute. Her only answer was a deeper, trusting sigh as sleep finally took her fully, her weight a perfect anchor. He stared at the ceiling, her heat seeping into him, his need transmuting into a profound, terrifying reverence.
He stared at the ceiling, her heat seeping into him, his need transmuting into a profound, terrifying reverence. Dawn pierced the room with sharp, judgmental light, carving the portrait of his rivals into a blade on the wall. He woke tense, braced for her flight, the memory of her split skin a cold stone in his gut.
Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his, still clouded with sleep. A slow, wincing smile touched her bruised mouth and she immediately draped her heavy, sore body over his, nuzzling her face into the pulse at the base of his throat. “Morning,” she mumbled, the word a sleep-rough scrape against his skin.
He remained rigid, his hand hesitating above the purple blooms on her hip. “Are you—” he began, his voice graveled with dread.
She cut him off by peppering a trail of sleepy, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, each one a soft, claiming brand. “I’m perfect,” she whispered, her lips moving against his sternum. She guided his hesitant hand to the worst of the bruises, pressing his palm into the vivid ache. “I feel you everywhere.”
A ragged breath escaped him, relief and a fiercer, hotter thing flooding his veins. Her fingers walked down the ladder of his abdomen, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers to wrap around his already-hard cock. “You’re mine,” she stated, her grip tightening with a possessiveness that mirrored his own. “This is mine.”
She shifted, wincing only slightly as she straddled him, the cotton of his shirt riding up her thighs. The morning light lit the shocking map of fingerprints along her pale skin. He could only watch, transfixed, as she positioned the swollen, flushed head of his cock at her entrance, still tender from the night before.
He could only watch, transfixed, as she positioned the swollen, flushed head of his cock at her entrance, still tender from the night before. She sank onto him with a glacial, deliberate pressure, a tight, burning slide that forced a shattered groan from his chest. “Fuck, Bella, slow,” he gritted out, his hands flying to her hips but applying no force, letting her own sore body dictate the brutal, perfect pace.
She rode him slow and deep, he let her set the pace, she was radiant. She peeled the borrowed shirt over her head, baring the pale canvas of her torso already marked from the night. He leaned up, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard before scraping his teeth across the peak, then soothing the sting with his tongue.
He peppered kisses and bites and bruises into her breasts and chest, she threaded her fingers into his hair keeping him close. “Right there,” she chanted, her voice a broken prayer as she lifted and fell, taking him to the root each time. He was so deep and he could see his cock bulging through her stomach, a distinct, obscene outline beneath her skin with every descent.
He pressed his hand tight against the slight swell, applying firm pressure, and they both moaned at the feeling, a shared, gut-deep shock of possession and penetration. “I can feel myself inside you,” he rasped, staring at his hand where it molded over the shape of his own thickness stretching her. She was so wet and dripping down his thighs, coating his cock in a sheen of slick and blood, the mixture gleaming in the morning light each time she rose.
The filthy, wet sounds of her taking him filled the sunlit room, a counter-rhythm to their ragged breath. “You’re fucking ruined,” he breathed against her sternum, biting a new, dark claim over his old fingerprints. “And you love it.”
His grip tightened on her hip, a fresh ache blooming under his fingers where the old bruises pulsed. "Say it," he demanded, his voice cracking like dry asphalt. Her rhythm stuttered, her internal muscles clamping around his buried length in a vicious, sweet spasm.
She lowered her mouth to his ear, her breath a humid promise against the shell. "Yes," she whispered, the word a torn secret passed between them. The simple affirmation detonated something primal in his core.
He rolled them with a snarl, pinning her battered body beneath his. The old coffee stain on the white rug glared up beside them, a witness. He drove into her, a single, brutal thrust that knocked her breath into a sharp cry.
"You're mine," he grunted, the pace he set now punitive, a claiming. Each slam punched a wet sound from her lungs. Her nails scored his back, drawing fresh furrows alongside the ghosts of her marks from the night before.
"Yours," she sobbed, her legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper. "Only yours, Carlos, fuck." He could feel the raw heat of her, the tender, torn flesh yielding perfectly to his shape. Spit pooled in the hollow of her throat and he bent to lick it, tasting salt and her surrender.
His thrusts lost all rhythm, devolving into a frantic, pounding chase. "Gonna fill this ruined cunt again," he promised, the filth dripping from his lips. Her eyes rolled back, a guttural scream building in her chest as he swelled inside her, every nerve pulled taut.
He came with a roar, his release a hot flood against her sore, inner walls. She followed, her body seizing around him in silent, rapturous pulses, her whispered 'yes' still hanging in the air between their sweat-slicked chests.
She followed, her body seizing around him in silent, rapturous pulses, her whispered 'yes' still hanging in the air between their sweat-slicked chests. His strength evaporated, and he collapsed upon her, a dead weight of spent need and shuddering reverence. They were a mess of tangled limbs and sweaty bodies, the humid air reeking of sex and salt and her bergamot lotion.
He was still buried inside her cunt, softening but present, a thick, wet anchor. “Don’t move,” she begged, her voice cracked and raw from screaming. Her sore internal muscles fluttered weakly around him, a rhythmic, pleading clench. “Just stay. Keep me full.”
He could deny her nothing. He shifted only to roll them onto their sides, never slipping out, her back fitted against his chest. He kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, tasting the fine sheen of perspiration there. “I’m not going anywhere, cariño,” he murmured into her damp skin, his arm a solid band across her stomach, his hand splayed over the bruises on her hip.
They lay in the wreckage of the sheets, breathing in tandem. His fingers traced idle, worshipful patterns on the skin of her abdomen. “I have been in love with you,” he said, the words leaving him like a long-held breath, “for six years. Since the day you spilled that americano on the white rug and called me a pretentious asshole for having a white rug.”
A soft, happy moan vibrated through her and into his chest. She clutched his hand tighter against her. “I’m yours,” she whispered, the certainty in her tone absolute. “Always. However you want me. Soft and slow like this, or brutal, or silly, or anything.”
He laughed, a rough, amazed sound, and nipped her shoulder. “I want you every way, always.” His stomach growled loudly, a blunt interruption of the profound. She giggled, the vibration travelling through where they were still joined, a silly, perfect sound.
“Breakfast,” she stated, wriggling back against him. “I’m starving. You wore me out.” He finally, reluctantly, slipped out of her, and she whimpered at the loss. He kissed the sound from her lips. “Stay. I’ll get it.”
He returned with a tray: espresso, orange juice, a plate of pastries, jam. He set it beside her and slid back into bed, his bare chest warm against her back. “Here,” he murmured, tearing a piece of buttery croissant.
He fed her, his fingers brushing her lips, sticky with apricot jam. She licked his thumb clean, her eyes holding his. He traced her lower lip with his jam-smeared thumb, then pushed it slowly into her mouth. She sucked it clean, her tongue swirling, and he groaned. “Fuck, that mouth.”
He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting the bitter coffee and sweet jam on her tongue. His hand slid between her thighs, finding her already wet and hot again despite the soreness. “Still so greedy for me,” he whispered, his voice thick. He pushed two fingers inside her, the stretch making her gasp into his mouth.
“You’re mine,” he breathed, working his fingers in the slick, tight clutch of her. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” she gasped, her hips shifting against his invading fingers. “Only yours.” Her head fell back against his shoulder, exposing the long line of her throat. He kissed her, a deep, consuming possession, as his fingers curled inside her, finding a rhythm that made her thighs tremble.
He broke the kiss, his own breath ragged. “Look at this,” he whispered, pulling his fingers from her cunt with a wet sound. They glistened in the morning light, streaked with her slick and the faint, unmistakable pink of old blood. He held them before her glassy eyes.
He brought his stained fingers to her parted lips. “Open.” She obeyed without hesitation, her tongue darting out to taste herself first. Then he pushed them into her mouth, past her lips, over her tongue, deep into her throat.
He fucked her throat with his own wet, red-tipped fingers, a mimicry of a darker possession. Her eyes flew wide, then fluttered shut, a choked groan vibrating around his knuckles. He watched, mesmerized, as her body arched.
A violent shudder ripped through her. Her cunt clenched around nothing, pulsing in empty, rhythmic waves, soaking the sheets beneath them. She was coming, hard, with nothing but his fingers stretching her throat.
He pulled his fingers from her mouth, slick and clean. Her body was still trembling from the climax he’d ripped from her with nothing but that invasive, worshipful violation. “Fucking incredible,” he breathed against her ear, his voice shot through with pure awe.
He knew she was sore, her cunt swollen and tender from the night’s brutality, a pain he could feel in the heat radiating from her. He also knew she was dripping, her slick coating his thighs as she pressed back against him. He shifted her gently onto her back, her winced inhalation a silent map of her discomfort.
He nudged her legs apart and guided himself to her entrance, a thick, persistent pressure against the bruised flesh. “This is all for you,” he whispered, pushing inside with an excruciatingly slow, deep cadence that made her dig her heels into the mattress. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that walked the razor’s edge between pain and blinding pleasure.
“You came just from my fingers in your throat,” he praised, each word a hot breath against her lips as he began to move, a gentle, relentless rock of his hips. “My perfect, hungry slut. You take everything I give you.” He moved with a measured, deep precision, each thrust a slow surge that pressed against the raw, sensitive walls of her cunt.
She whimpered, her nails scraping down his back, her body accepting the deep, claiming rhythm. “Feel how wet you are for me,” he grunted, the filthy words laced with a tenderness that unspooled her. “So sore and still so fucking greedy.” Her internal muscles fluttered weakly around his invading length, a rhythmic, pleading clench that pulled a groan from his chest.
The tension coiled, tight and inevitable, at the base of his spine. Her breaths became sharp, shattered gasps, her heels locking behind his thighs to pull him deeper. “Carlos,” she choked out, her body bowing, and he felt her cunt constrict around him in a series of pulsing, liquid waves.
Her climax triggered his own; his gentle rhythm fractured into a few final, deep drives as he emptied himself into her with a ragged shout, his release a hot flood against her sore, tender core. They collapsed, a tangled, breathless knot of limbs, the slow, shared aftershocks vibrating through their joined flesh.
They collapsed, a tangled, breathless knot of limbs, the slow, shared aftershocks vibrating through their joined flesh. He remained buried inside her, his softening cock a warm, heavy presence within her well-used cunt. His hands, which had been instruments of brutal possession, now traced the wings of her shoulder blades with a touch so light it raised goosebumps. He shifted them with a groan, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him so she lay draped across his chest, still impaled on him. “Mi corazón,” he whispered into her hair, his voice shredded. She made a contented, murmuring sound, her breath already deepening into sleep against his damp skin. He could feel every exquisite, sore inch of her surrounding him, a hot and perfect fist. His fingertips skimmed the vivid, purple-yellow blooms on her hips, a topography of his own savage devotion. He memorized the raised welts her nails had left on his back, a mirrored scripture. The old coffee stain on the white rug was a dark eye in his periphery, a testament to where this all began. Her breathing evened out into the deep, trusting rhythm of unconsciousness, her full weight a sacred anchor on his chest. He stayed motionless, wanting the feeling to last, worshipping the shell of her ear with his lips. The distant hum of Monaco preparing for the race filtered through the glass, a world away. His hands moved over her, gentle and loving, charting the geography of their collision. He would let her sleep, he decided, for as long as she needed, even as the mechanics’ calls began to buzz his phone. His own eyes grew heavy, lulled by the rise and fall of her back, the fragile peace of her in his arms.